


Be afraid of the dark and survive it

by obaewankenope (rexthranduil)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Catholicism for now, It's Going Well, M/M, Mace is mentioned and already is a shit, No Jedi force powers, Obi-Wan is unique, Priest AU, Qui-Gon is already tired, Religion, Supernatural AU - Freeform, religious talk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 15:11:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15246051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexthranduil/pseuds/obaewankenope
Summary: “What's so important about a three hundred year old book?”“Everything, It'll save your life one day.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know. I watched a horror movie. I had ideas. QuiObi week has just gone by. I don't know okay. I just don't know...

Sunshine filtered through the high bay windows overlooking the expanse of a dark wooden library, stacks populated with texts of varying age and size. A long corridor, as wide as four desks, cut the large room in half, two columns of desks the same dark colour as the stacks created three separate walkways. Four desks down on the left hand side, furthest from the help desk at one end and the bathrooms at the other — perfectly placed — sat three individuals, clustered around a single desk.

“Do you want to tell me _why_ I'm here?” One of the individuals asked, hair a russet shade of red-brown that shined like a fiery orange when the sun hit it. He quirked an eyebrow up at his companions, unimpressed with the look they shared. “Seriously? I have other things to do beside sit in the library all day, Garen.”

The tallest of the three sighed. “Honestly,” he said, glancing at the third individual on his right, “you'd think we were the worst company in history, Bant.”

Someone walked past, giving the three of them a disapproving glare that had the redhead looking down at the book open on the desk.

“Enough, Garen.” The third individual finally spoke, Bant, reaching over to place a hand on the open book. “ _This_ is why you're here, Obi-Wan,” she explained, staring at the redhead intensely. “You need to read this book, cover-to-cover.”

At Bant’s side, Garen had an unusually sombre expression, his eyes distant even as he stared at Obi-Wan.

“ _Why_?” Obi-Wan asked. “What's so important about a three hundred year old book?”

Bant and Garen smiled. “Everything,” she answered. “It'll save your life one day.”

“And maybe someone else's too,” Garen added cryptically.

Obi-Wan sighed and pulled the book towards him. “I hope they'll let me check this out,” he muttered. “Otherwise my bank account is going to take one heck of a hit trying to find a copy of this.”

Bant and Garen watched Obi-Wan stand and head towards the help desk, book in hand.

“Do you think it'll really make a difference?” Garen asked suddenly, staring after the redhead. “It's not exactly the most reliable source.”

Bant sighed. “I know,” she conceded, “but it's the only one I know of that might help him.”

They looked at each other.

“Let's hope it helps then,” Garen finally said, placing a comforting hand on Bant’s shoulder. “Gods know but he'll need all the help he can get.”

Bant closed her eyes. “We all will,” she whispered. “We all will.”

A loud thump surprised them both and they stared as a harried looking student dropped three books on the desk they were at, ignorant of them both.

“I told him to leave his bag on the seat,” Garen said after a moment. “What does he expect us to do? We can't exactly tell people that this spot is taken, can we?”

“I know.” Bant sighed. “He just forgets, you know…”

Garen stared at the student now all but sprawled out on the desk. He stood abruptly. Bant followed. Together they made their way towards where Obi-Wan was quietly haggling with the librarian on duty for a longer loan period.

“Man,” Garen muttered. “Being dead _sucks_ sometimes.”

Bant snorted. “Doesn't it just.”

 

* * * * *

 

“Father! Father Jinn!” A voice echoed behind him as he strode through the halls of the House of God. Qui-Gon sighed internally even as he turned to face the source of the voice. “Father!”

“Yes? May I help you?” He asked politely, clasping his hands behind his back.

The young clerk — or possibly priest-to-be, Qui-Gon honestly couldn't tell the difference nowadays — stumbled, tripping over his words as he came to a sudden halt in front of the tall priest.

“Uh… you uh- the council put an alert out- they-” the young man stammered, blinking rapidly. Qui-Gon raised a hand.

“Take a moment, breathe,” he said calmly. “Focus on the moment.”

The young man nodded, taking several deep breaths before he finally spoke a full, coherent sentence.

“The council put an alert out to all church-affiliated libraries to monitor the amount of traffic certain texts saw,” the young man explained. “The point of contact for when a text is flagged by the system is, well, is yourself Father Jinn.”

Qui-Gon blinked. _He_ was the contact? But he wasn't on the council, had absolutely no desire to be either. How had-

 _Mace_.

Qui-Gon sighed.

“Very well,” he said eventually, already turning away from the young clerk-or-trainee-priest. “Send me the details and I'll look into it.”

The young man nodded. “I uh- yes, Father Jinn! Of course!”

Qui-Gon continued on his journey, heading towards his preferred garden while in the heart of the Vatican. The smartphone in his pocket buzzed, alerting him to a new email, and he fished it out of his pocket even as he headed down the last flight of steps and out the double doors into the garden.

The sunlight filtered through the foliage of the trees and climbing plants that decorated the garden, each plant carefully cultivated to grow only on the trellis and not the brick and mortar of the garden walls. Flowering plants and neat hedges lined the pathway that snaked through the garden, branching off into dead ends where benches were placed for quiet contemplation..

Qui-Gon found this particular garden to be the nicest in the entirety of the Vatican. Simple and understated, it was elegant in its beauty and lack of statues. A rarity, indeed.

Seating himself on his favourite bench, one that gave him a near perfect view of the entire garden including the small fountain at its heart, Qui-Gon accessed his emails and opened the file that had been sent to him.

“Interesting,” he mumbled, staring down at his screen. “An unusual choice for someone not studying theology and the occult.”

Beneath the title of the book, the location of the library it had been loaned from, and other information pertaining to it, was a name. A name and a picture.

The person who had loaned the book.

The cause of the red flag.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Qui-Gon read, looking at the photograph. Qui-Gon’s lip twitched slightly. “I suppose you and I shall be meeting soon, young Kenobi."


	2. Chapter 2

The train took too long to reach his stop - it always did - but Obi-Wan was too tired at this point to care. He just wanted to get back to his flat and  _ sleep _ . 

“You look like you’ve pulled four allnighter’s.” Garen smirked down at the redhead almost burrowed into the window seat he’d nabbed the moment he’d gotten on the train.

Obi-Wan peeled one eye open and glared up at Garen. “ _ Bite me _ ,” he muttered under his breath.

Garen laughed.

“I would but it takes too much energy, Obi-Wan,” he said, dropping down into the seat opposite Obi-Wan. “The best I can do is make a pencil float.” He shrugged. “Bant’s the one with the real talent for that ‘moving stuff’ thing.”

Obi-Wan hummed in agreement, shifting in his seat to try and burrow deeper into his jacket. The heat of the day had died off into a balmy coolness that had left him shivering while waiting for the train to arrive. His jacket wasn’t very thick but the material was enough to keep the chill off him; though the open windows near the front of the compartment didn’t help with the cold since the wind shot through them and kept the compartment at a consistently cool temperature.

Still, the chill was preferable to the smell of sweat and other bodily odours that the train often smelt of in the summer. 

“You’re not too bad at that either,” Garen said suddenly. Obi-Wan blinked slowly.

“Not too bad at what?” He asked, voice quiet but still loud in the train. He was lucky that he was the only passenger in his particular compartment.

Garen rolled his eyes. “Moving stuff.” He stared at Obi-Wan who stared back at him. “With your mind. Jedi-style.”

Obi-Wan snorted.

“I’m shite at it,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “Now _please_ shut up, I’ve got another half-hour before I’ve got to walk twenty minutes down pitch black alleys to my shitty flat and I’d like for that time to be spent sleeping.”

Garen rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll just keep stum and wait like a good little ghostie, shall I?”

Obi-Wan smirked, eyes already closed. “Sounds great,” he quipped, smirk growing when Garen grumbled wordlessly.

“You’re lucky I like you, jackass,” Garen muttered, shifting in the seat to get comfortable. He crossed his arms over his chest and propped his legs up on the seat next to Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan’s smirk grew and he snuggled into his jacket, head resting against the cool glass of the window. Orange lights flashed through his eyelids and Obi-Wan silently counted them, mind slowing further until he was in a light doze.

Silent and patient, Garen stared at Obi-Wan with an expression on his face that was difficult to parse. There was grief there, but also something lighter, kinder, and tender. Something almost like love.

In the night, the train trundled on.

 

* * * * 

 

Qui-Gon clambered out of the car he’d rented at the airport, endlessly thankful that he was resilient enough to jet-lag that he could last a good couple of hours before he needed to rest. His record so far was fourteen-hours-and-ten-minutes. A four hour flight with two changes - Lord above, but  _ why  _ \- and a further six hours to get through customs, collect his luggage (including the bag that always tried to go missing no matter what he tried), rent a car and drive to his hotel, and Qui-Gon was already close enough to his limit that he planned on checking in, unpacking the bare essentials, maybe grab a shower and then sleep for _at least_ six hours.

Hopefully a full eight, but six would suffice.

The young woman at the reception desk was far too cheery for this time of night but Qui-Gon simply gave her a polite, if tired, smile and requested that the free breakfast option not be applied to him for the first night. The way the receptionist smiled at him told Qui-Gon that she recognised someone with jet-lag and she thankfully didn’t question him, just handed him the key to his room and wished him a ‘good night’.

Dragging his suitcase behind him, Qui-Gon quietly thanked the fact that the Premier Inn had a lift that would take him to his floor. He’d been stuck in a place that only had stairs the last time he’d been sent off on an assignment and his knees  _ still  _ twinged at the thought of the twelve flights of stairs he’d had to traverse daily.

The bed was plain, a simple small double with beige sheets and white pillows, but to Qui-Gon it looked like the most beautiful thing in existence. He placed his suitcase in the cupboard-wardrobe after pulling out his bag of toiletries, sleeping clothes and fresh underwear. The bathroom had a decent-sized shower that Qui-Gon estimated he’d be able to stretch his arms above his head fully without touching the ceiling - a pleasant surprise.

After a quick shower and brushing his teeth - something that took less than twenty minutes considering how desperate for sleep now - Qui-Gon draped the damp towel he’d used to dry himself with on the chair near the window. His hair was piled up in a towel on his head and he pulled it off as he sat down on the end of the bed. 

Rubbing the strands of his greying hair, Qui-Gon hummed quietly to himself. The tune was one his mother had sung to him back when he was a young lad who’d decided that cutting his hair was the worst idea ever. His father hadn’t been pleased but his mother had loved brushing his hair when it touched his shoulders, pulling it back from his face with elaborate braids that Qui-Gon had never managed to recreate.

Hair damp but no longer heavy with retained water, Qui-Gon pulled it back into a simple tail, letting the ends fall against his shirtless back. His pyjama shirt was still neatly folded on the bed beside him and Qui-Gon stared at it for a long moment, debating with himself. Finally he shrugged and picked it up, tossing it over onto the chair as he stood up and made his way to the top of the bed.

Pulling back the cover, he picked up the mints placed on the pillows and dropped them onto the bedside cabinet, raising an eyebrow at the gaudy yellow foil they were wrapped in. How long had it been since he’d last been in a British hotel that the colour of the mint packaging had changed from green to  _ yellow _ ?

Qui-Gon shook his head. Heavens but he was  _ tired  _ if he was contemplating mint packaging colours. Dropping down onto the bed, he lay back and drew the blanket up over himself, shifting so that he lay on his side with an arm on top of the blanket.

He knew he’d wake up around dawn but hopefully it would be closer to noon than five in the morning. Hopefully the dreams wouldn’t wake him. 

_ Hopefully _ .

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly have no clue if this will even go anywhere but I like the set up so far at least.
> 
> Comments and kudos sustain me.


End file.
